


Yet shee will bee false, ere I come, to two, or three

by lotesse



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Character of Color, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-24
Updated: 2009-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotesse/pseuds/lotesse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A single girl, unsmiling and placid and serene, and he misses the sweet intoxication of her eyes and the deep scent of her body, and the feeling he'd had that her trust and faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yet shee will bee false, ere I come, to two, or three

This time, when he holds open the door for her, she slinks in like a stretching cat. She's radiant - dark, simple, elegant clothes that do nothing to hide her shape, hair tied back cleanly, the scent of orchids and apricot clinging to her like a second skin.

She runs a caressing hand along his cheek. "You're beautiful," she whispers, eyes blown wide open and so dark. "You're beautiful."

He knows what this is; he saw this woman born, sewn into Echo's pretty blue-lit body. They wanted a sex toy, but they were sophisticated men. Wanted more than a doll. Wanted a willing victim. She'll fall into bed with any man who looks at her sideways, right now. It has nothing to do with him.

He looks at her. "It will all be all right," he says to her, and she purrs it back, the response they'd wired into her, automatic as breathing out and breathing in.

"Oh now that you're here." She laughs softly, sweetly, the most lovely little childlike laugh. "I don't know why," she says, "but I trust you, I trust you so much. Will you kiss me?"

He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't, knows that this is wrong in every way. But he does, and her mouth is warm and her lips are papery dry at first, until she deepens the kiss.

"Echo," he says, gasping, when she pulls back.

"Who's she?' Echo asks him, her eyes glittering from beneath lowered lashes. "Did you love her? Do you miss her? I'm Olivia, but I can be her for you if you'd like."

He can smell her body, the deep musky scent of her arousal, her sheer physical willingness. He pulls himself together, pulls away from her. Reminds himself that she's an illusion, a reverberation of a sound long silenced. Not real. "Nice to meet you, Olivia," he said. "I'm Boyd. Echo is -" and he stops himself. "Miss, from what I hear, you really do need that treatment."

Echo pouts, and she touches his cheek again. "Yes," she says with a sigh, "I do need my treatment. But you'll wait for me? I want to know about Echo." She turns her long neck to him, a gesture of submission and sexuality and trust, and he aches to touch her again - she's far too good at this, the imprint perfect all the way down to her scent, her eyes, her mouth. "I trust you," she says again, and this time there's less raw sex in her voice and more - reality. She means it. "I want to be with you."

The car pulls up to the curb, and the doors open. "I'll be here when you come out," Boyd says, not trusting himself to get out after her, to follow her into those long halls of distorting golden glass.

She presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth, brief and moving already, and her eyes are filled with promises. He touches her as she climbs past him, reaching out to hold her still, to pin her down. She moves so quickly, always, leaping like light from identity to identity. She never stays the same girl for more than a moment, and in a moment of surprising solemnity he finds himself mourning this girl, Olivia, who was so sweet and lovely and who is walking unknowing to what is essentially her death.

When he at last steps out of the car she's gone, and he walks slowly up the stairs of the Dollhouse, walking toward his office, his title, the inevitable post-engagement debriefing with Topher and DeWitt.

She's there like a ghost, dark red cotton and loose, soft hair. "I fell asleep again," she tells him innocently, significance hanging from her words.

"Echo," he says, and it's like a surrender.

She stands on her tip-toes to press a dry kiss against the corner of his mouth, already moving again as he responds, falling back on to her bare feet. "Now that you're here," she whispers, and caresses his cheek.

"Everything's going to be all right," he tells her hoarsely. "Everything's going to be all right." And he takes her hand, holds her still, pins her down to a single moment. A single girl, unsmiling and placid and serene, and he misses the sweet intoxication of her eyes and the deep scent of her body, and the feeling he'd had that her trust and faith had meant something real.

He aches, deep and inexorable, for a girl he's never met. He can tell himself that it was only Olivia he reacted to, but he recognizes that as a lie. Whatever face Echo wears, he falls in love with. Whichever girl she becomes he yearns for. Even when she's blank, he wants to -

Next time, he holds open the door for her, and she bounces into the car, effervescent and young, and more than anything he wants to hear her say again that she trusts him. She doesn't look back as she hurries off on the engagement, and he watches her go until the shape and distinctive motion of her body are lost to him in the gathering crowd.


End file.
